Traces of the Girl

by E. R. FALLON

  “I had thought about it,” Maple admitted after a moment. “But not lately. You’re fine, Detective Harry Cannon. You can stay.”

  “Good.” She considered thanking him but just smiled to herself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It couldn’t have been true. No. Impossible. But the newspaper wouldn’t have printed it if it wasn’t true. They had fact checkers for those sorts of things. No one had contacted Joyce about the article before printing that filth. But how could they have, with she and Albert on the run from the law?

  Albert waited in the car with that Emily girl while Joyce had gone into the rest stop to get a newspaper – albeit a somewhat outdated copy – to see what the police knew. They didn’t have cell phones because they’d tossed them so they couldn’t be traced, and the radio signal in the car was unreliable on the backroads. Somehow they’d managed to avoid the police checkpoints she and Albert were positive were occurring by then.

  The filth the newspaper had printed, that their father wasn’t dead, but he had been arrested for domestic assault, something neither of them could have remembered since they were so young at the time. Then their father left them after that and their mother killed herself. Their relatives had lied to them.

  Joyce felt very humiliated, and publicly, which was a new feeling for her to experience since people tended to fear her too much to humiliate her.

  There was nothing in the article about a jogger hearing gunshots, which is the one thing that pleased Joyce a little. Either the man was too old to have heard, or most likely, and what Joyce felt was the most human thing for him to have done – and the most inhumane – was he had heard, only he didn’t care. It wasn’t his business.

  The article talked about some cop, a woman detective named Harriet Cannon, being the lead investigator on Joyce and Albert’s case. The article mentioned that she and Albert had killed Cannon’s sister-in-law, Maria, during the robbery. Joyce remembered the victim well because she’d shot her, the woman who’d fought back. That Detective Cannon had to really hate Joyce and Albert.

  And the article said the police had a witness, some woman who’d been hiding during the ordeal but who she and Albert hadn’t seen. That’s how the police had finally identified them. Because it so happened that this witness, some unnamed woman, also had lived next door to them at one point in that little ugly town before they got kicked out of that little ugly house, so she knew their faces and their names well. The police were guarding the woman’s house because she feared retaliation from Joyce and Albert. What they didn’t know was that she and Albert were long gone.

  Damn, she and Albert’s names and the sketches of them out there for everyone to see wasn’t good. The sketches made her look ugly, and Albert look mean and ugly. They looked like psychos. Joyce almost laughed out loud at the terrible drawings. They were so awful that someone who’d failed art school must have made them.

  But she wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t. Joyce wouldn’t stand there in the middle of the crowded rest stop in the middle of the morning with tears streaming down her face. She had too much dignity. She wouldn’t cry in front of Emily when she returned to the car and told Albert the bad news. Albert would be angry. Who knew what he might do?

  Joyce made fists as her sorrow turned to rage. Rage, the most common emotion she felt. She started to walk away from the newspaper shop with the newspaper in her hand.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, you need to pay for that,” the man behind the counter shouted at her.

  She’d forgotten in her haste. Joyce stopped in her tracks and faced the man. Her face burned with anger. She’d been about to yell at him, then she remembered she and Albert were robbers and murderers on the run and she gained control of herself. She couldn’t let her emotions ruin her and Albert’s plans. If she got into a fight with this guy then surely the police would be called and they’d get her and then they’d find Albert in the parking lot. And it would be all over for them. Or more likely, Albert would detonate the bomb and then it really would be all over for him and Emily Will. If she left quietly most likely no one would noticed she had been there. Most of these rest stops were so old they hadn’t bothered with upgrades like security cameras. But she wore a pair of sunglasses she’d found in the pickup truck just in case.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said in a fake soft voice to the man and gave him her best fake smile. “I completely forgot.” She reached into her pocket and handed him a couple of crumpled dollars she had from before the robbery.

  The man took the money and smiled. “That’s okay, ma’am. It happens to all of us.”

  Had he noticed her from the newspaper? Did he look at her for longer than normal?

  As Joyce was walking away, she thought she heard the man murmur, “Stupid cow.”

  He hadn’t recognized her, because if he had he wouldn’t have dared to speak that way to her. But that did it. This guy was going to get a much-deserved talking to from her. She stopped in her tracks again and started to turn around.

  No. Wait. It would be her word against his. And screaming at him at the top of her lungs like she wanted to would get a lot of attention. The police could, and almost certainly would, get involved. They’d identify her. Then they’d find Albert in the stolen truck in the parking lot, who would probably blow himself and Emily up. She’d lose her brother. And she couldn’t lose Albert, not so soon after she found him.

  She had to leave. She couldn’t keep Albert waiting any longer. The longer he waited in the parking lot in that stolen pickup truck the more likely he’d be caught by the police. The law enforcement, that Detective Cannon, probably had every cop in the state looking out for the black truck. And, like hell would she allow the unfamiliar sensitivity she felt to ruin their plans. Joyce had always prided herself as having ‘a skin as thick as a crocodile’s’, and she wasn’t going to let one very rude comment destroy her life.

  So she continued walking away and left the rest stop building. She entered the parking lot and got into the pickup truck where Albert discreetly had the gun pointed at Emily. He had the car running. He’d probably turned on the engine when he saw her coming.

  He gestured at the newspaper Joyce clutched in her hand. She didn’t want Emily to see the article because she felt it made her and Albert seem vulnerable.

  “Anything I should know about?” he asked her.

  “Nope,” Joyce said quietly.

  Albert hesitated before he began to leave the parking space, as though he doubted her answer.

  “I said no, Albert.”

  He left the space and pulled out of the parking lot onto the highway. He exited onto a smaller road straight away to avoid hitting a road block.

  The three of them rode in silence with Emily’s labored breathing interrupting the quiet as she sat between them.

  “Why are you breathing like that?” Joyce asked her.

  “Water. Can I have some water?” she responded.

  Joyce had bought a big bottle of water from the rest stop for her and Albert to share. She wasn’t planning on giving Emily any, at least not until they were in the air and halfway to Cuba. Albert had told her earlier when Emily was asleep that they’d be at the airport soon. Not giving Emily water would break her spirit just a little bit more and help them control her in case the hypnosis started to wear off. Joyce had also used the nice, clean bathroom at the rest stop, something Emily couldn’t do.

  “No,” Joyce said. She drank some of the water and then offered it to Albert.

  “Thanks.” He gulped down a good amount.

  “Can I please have some?” Emily’s question sounded almost like begging.

  Joyce had noticed Emily swallowing her pills, but struggling to without water.

  “No,” Joyce said again. “Shut up.” She fixed the middle seatbelt that Emily used.

  “If you’re going to kill me anyway, why do you care if I wear my seatbelt?” Emily asked.

  “We need you alive to fly us,” Joyce replied.

  “So
if you didn’t need me then you wouldn’t care if I died?”

  “Yep. Pretty much.”

  Albert sighed and shook his head. He’s becoming a softie, Joyce thought. Or maybe he always was and it was just coming out then. She didn’t know him that well.

  They drove into the countryside and Joyce watched Emily staring at a group of brown horses grazing in a snowy pasture. Joyce wondered if Emily was thinking how free the horses seemed compared to her. She spotted what looked like an abandoned red barn up ahead on the left. In a different time and a different season, Joyce imagined the fields around it had shone gold with wheat in the sunshine. There appeared to be nothing else for miles. Joyce rolled down the truck window and breathed in the crisp, fresh country air. She liked the smell of the air and couldn’t imagine living in the city where the air often stunk. Would the air be fresh in Cuba?

  “Pull over,” she told Albert.

  “What’s going on, Joyce?” he said. “We’re making good time.”

  “Damn it. Just pull over, Albert.”

  Albert had been driving at a normal speed. There didn’t seem to be any cops around there but Joyce always felt someone might be watching. She encouraged Albert to drive slowly to avoid attracting attention. It was bad enough they were in a stolen vehicle.

  The pickup truck bumped up and down over the rutted road to the barn. Albert parked. Joyce took the gun from Albert’s lap and unbuckled her seatbelt.

  “I’m going to check it out,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She ignored him and opened the door.

  “What’s going on, Joyce,” he said as she jumped down from the truck to the rugged earth.

  She shut the door.

  Joyce walked around the quiet property, filled with overgrown crops and plants near the barn. What had been the main farmhouse had fallen and folded into a dilapidated pile of wooden boards with chipping white paint and nails. The place had to have been abandoned but she checked anyway.

  “Hello?” she shouted. “Hello?”

  No one answered. No sounds, not even of an animal. Just quiet, with the occasional rippling breeze. The beauty of the morning was in sharp contrast to what she planned to do to Emily.

  Joyce went to the barn and the door opened with a creaking sound. Abandoned also, like she’d thought. It had a dirty floor, and a piece of old, rusted farm equipment in one corner. Joyce looked up and could see numerous holes in the wooden roof and small birds sitting on the rafters, crapping onto the floor from above. Joyce smiled. It was perfect and would be so demeaning for Emily. She wanted to release her anger about the newspaper article and maybe break Emily’s spirit in the process. Emily had made it so hard for them to break her.

  Joyce returned to the truck, opened the door, and reached in and undid Emily’s seatbelt and one of her handcuffs.

  “Get out,” she ordered Emily with the gun in her hand.

  Emily seemed to look to Albert for assistance, which annoyed Joyce.

  “He’s not your friend, little girl. We’re not your friends.” Joyce smacked the gun against the side of Emily’s face.

  “Fuck, that hurt.” Emily put her hand to her face and rubbed her red jaw.

  “You’re gonna hurt a hell of a lot more if you don’t get out of the truck.” Joyce gestured with the gun.

  Albert seemed to avoid looking at Emily on purpose.

  “Where are you going?” he asked Joyce.

  Joyce waved him off. She fixed Emily’s handcuffs so that she looked like a prisoner.

  Emily hopped out of the truck and Joyce ordered her to walk, barefoot, in front of her to the barn with the gun pointed at Emily’s back. Joyce walked a few paces behind her. Emily seemed to walk in pain from the rough, stone-strewn earth under her bare feet.

  Joyce made Emily open the barn door and close it and then walk across the bird crap-covered floor. Joyce began to sneeze at the leftover hay that was scattered here and there on the floor.

  “You have hay fever,” Emily commented.

  “Shut up. I don’t want your sympathy.” Joyce thought that even an ailment like hay fever could make her seem weak in front of Emily. “Sit down,” she ordered.

  “On the floor?” Emily looked at the dirty ground.

  Joyce nodded and cocked the gun. “Do it. Now.”

  Emily sat with her legs crossed on the floor, and Joyce could see the filthy bottoms of her feet had raw, bloody marks and scratches on them from her having gone barefoot across the ground so many times.

  Out of nowhere Joyce hit Emily across the chest and collarbone with the end of the gun and Emily flew back onto the soiled floor from the force of the blow.

  “What are you doing?” Emily said as she used her hands to touch the floor and collect herself. She rose with her hands pressed to her chest and collarbone as best as she could in the cuffs, sort of holding the bleeding area where Joyce had struck her. “Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t do anything. Are you trying to break me? Is that what you’re trying to do? Because you never will.” Emily spat at her and the wet glob hit Joyce in the eye. “Screw you, Joyce.”

  Joyce recoiled and wiped her eye clean. “You bitch.” Her teeth clenched and she boiled over with anger. In her haste to back away from Emily the gun wasn’t pointed at Emily anymore, and Joyce realized that she could bolt. Joyce made herself regain her composure and aimed the gun at Emily again.

  Joyce didn’t have a specific reason to beat Emily. The girl was in handcuffs and pretty much defenseless. Joyce knew it wouldn’t be an equal fight. But she didn’t care. She wanted something, someone, to take her anger out on. The rage had been building inside her for a long time, from even before she read the newspaper article, but the article had pushed her over the edge. Her wrath wasn’t really directed at Emily. Emily had just been the closet thing Joyce could attack. She couldn’t very well beat up Albert.

  Joyce raised her hand with the gun high over Emily, readying to beat on her again.

  The barn door opened and Albert sprinted inside the rickety structure.

  Joyce paused. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be watching the truck.” She struggled to remain calm.

  “I was. But you never told me why you wanted to stop and come in here with her. What the heck’s going on, Joycee? You’re holding us back.”

  “Me and Emily are having a conversation between just us girls,” she said as coolly as she could.

  Albert pointed at Emily’s bleeding collarbone. “What kind of conversation is that?”

  “Are you protecting this girl?” Joyce laughed. “Albert’s got a little crush.”

  His face reddened. “No. You doing this is taking up valuable time. We should’ve been almost there by now.”

  There. The airport where the wealthy stored their private planes, their big toys, over the winter. It was closed that cold time of the year and Joyce and Albert had already staked out the area and were confident they could steal a working plane from there.

  “I think I know why you’re mad,” Albert said.

  Emily seemed unable to stop watching them.

  Joyce looked at him. “You do?”

  “I read the newspaper while you were in here,” he said. “I saw the thing about our dad.”

  Joyce motioned for him to shush.

  “Joycee, I know why you’re angry. But she’s the one thing we can’t sacrifice right now. Dad’s the one we should be angry at. Not her.” He walked up behind Joyce and put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her away from Emily, but Joyce still had the gun pointed at Emily. Albert put his hand on her arm and tried to get her to lower it. “We have to get going.”

  Emily sat there staring at Joyce with blood smeared across her collarbone, but with a smug look on her swollen face – swollen from the last beating where she’d blacked out from Joyce’s force – as if she’d defeated Joyce. As if she’d defeated her! That would never happen if Joyce had her way. That stupid, stupid girl. What the hell was she thinking?

  O
r maybe it wasn’t a smug look and it had just looked that way to Joyce. She couldn’t tell. Then there was that look again, or was it? What kind of game was this girl trying to play with her?

  “How could you do this to another woman?” Emily asked her. “To another person?”

  Joyce wouldn’t say why. Suddenly she wanted to kill Emily, rip her body and pretty face apart with her bare hands. For a moment she didn’t care if killing her meant she and Albert’s plans would be sabotaged and that it would be her fault. She wanted Emily to feel some of the pain she’d felt when reading about her and Albert’s loser father. Not only had the newspaper article identified her and Albert and had ugly sketches of them, and made them seem like idiots who hadn’t noticed the witness to their crimes, but it had revealed to the whole town and maybe the whole world for all Joyce knew, that their father didn’t want them and their mother didn’t care enough about them to stick around.

  Joyce dropped the gun and charged forward at Emily and wrapped her hands around her neck, about to strangle her. Albert yanked Joyce off her and picked up the gun and he pointed it at Joyce.

  “You’re pointing the fucking gun at me?” she screamed. “At me?”

  Albert grabbed her arm and pulled her aside with the gun now aimed at Emily once again. “Joycee. You get a hold of yourself, you hear me?” he whispered furiously.

  “She spat in my eye,” Joyce said.

  “All right, she shouldn’t have done that, but don’t do this. Please. Don’t ruin what you’ve always wanted to do and we planned and have been waiting to do. You’re not thinking clearly.” Albert’s voice shook with emotion. “God knows, I like you more than her. I love you, sister. But the plain fact is we need this girl alive to fly us.”

  To see her large, muscular brother almost brought to tears snapped Joyce out of her previous frenzy.

  “And I’m usually the calm one. I’m sorry, Albert.”

  Joyce hadn’t intended to make her baby brother so upset, and although she might have told herself earlier that she didn’t care if she hurt him momentarily as long as it meant hurting Emily, she actually did care.